Free Dire Threads by Janet Bolin Page B

checking the envelope for things he might want.”
    “Did Smythe Castor run around with Mike and his buddies?” I asked.
    “I may have seen him with them once or twice. I think he’s younger than the ringleaders.”
    “What about Clay Fraser? Was he one of Mike’s gang?”
    “I can’t remember. There were so many of them. Different ones at different times. But always Mike spurring them on.” She seemed to fold in on herself. “You be careful around all of them, and don’t let them blame you for things they did. And that includes Uncle Allen DeGlazier. He’s wilier than he looks.”
    “You be careful, too.” I tried to keep doubt from my face. Was she warning me against Mike’s friends for my sake or to deflect suspicion from herself?
    Looking satisfied at accomplishing her mission, whatever it was, she sidled out. Was agreeing to sell her weavings a mistake? If fear was contagious, I might catch it. But the linens were beautiful. I didn’t want to display them near the front windows where they might fade. I moved the bistro table farther back. Dawn’s colorful work contrasted nicely with the heritage designs I’d stitched on the white tablecloth.
    The Threadville tour bus trundled past. Minutes later, my morning students charged into my shop.
    “What happened? Why is that cop car outside again?” Rosemary asked.
    “A man died in my backyard early this morning.”
    Yesterday’s artistic woman, the one who’d said she lived in Elderberry Bay and had drawn a picture of Blueberry Cottage in a few deft strokes, was dressed head to toe in chocolate brown today. She raised her chin. “I heard it was that snirp—”
    Rosemary interrupted. “What’s a snirp?”
    “You know, a twerp in a snit, like that Mike Krawbach who was in here yesterday trying to pack a petition with illegal signatures. If anyone was asking to be killed—”
    “Now, Georgina,” the woman beside her scolded. Susannah, the other local?
    The somber mood lightened as everyone poured themselves cider and showed off their homework. Following the instructions I’d given them yesterday, they had bought floral fabrics at The Stash and had hooped fabric and stabilizer together, but any resemblance to each others’ work ended there. They’d chosen a variety of fabrics, colors, and stitches, and had ended up with deliciously different embroidered flowers.
    In addition to flaunting unique designs, each student made it her mission to describe how she planned to use her completed homework. Several motifs were destined to be sewn onto babies’ and children’s clothes. Some would decorate quilts. One woman was going to use hers to patch a sheet that had suffered an unfortunate clash with a sofa bed. Another planned to use hers to beautify an apron for her mother. Two women pranced around in vests, one quilted pink twill, the other black velvet, both embellished with their homework. These women were a traveling fashion show.
    Rosemary cut their show-and-tell short. “What are we making today, Willow?”
    I held up an embroidery hoop that fit one of my embroidery machines. I had loaded it with stabilizer and a square of sage green felt. “We’re going to embroider with machines.”
    They cheered.
    Grinning at the enthusiasm the women must have fanned into flames during their bus ride from Erie, I showed them a small memory card. “In addition to pretty designs, this contains several fonts.” They gathered around while I inserted the card into the attachment and demonstrated choosing letters, resizing them, and centering them in the hoop.
    I started the machine. It wrote Willow in—what else?—willowy script. My students loved it.
    Georgina asked, “What about those threads between letters? They show.”
    They did, barely. “You can clip them. Very carefully.”
    “Won’t your name unravel?” Susannah asked.
    “Not if you don’t cut the threads on the back of the design,” I answered.
    They dispersed to machines around the shop.